


The Quiet Dark

by subjunctive



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (but it fits right in), (if missing scenes can be porny things that definitely didn't happen in canon), Angst and Porn, Canon - TV, Cunnilingus, F/M, Face-Sitting, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Hand Jobs, Missing Scene, POV Jon, Past Abuse and Rape, Sharing a Bed, light comeplay, season 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 15:39:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10744665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subjunctive/pseuds/subjunctive
Summary: “A room for my wife and I, and a stable for our horses,” Jon told the innkeep. (Jon and Sansa, during their Northern tour, pretending to be married.)





	The Quiet Dark

“A room for my wife and I, and a stable for our horses,” Jon told the innkeep.

“Names?” The man turned and spat to the side, sourleaf-red.

“Willem, and my wife is Joanna.” Jon gave a perfunctory nod in Sansa’s direction. They had done this several times by now, and the introductions were routine. She stood quietly by his side, her hood still drawn up.

It was bitterly cold outside, but the fur-lined hood was as much for disguise as protection. Her hair would be a banner calling all the wrong attention. Jon kept Longclaw wrapped in his bedroll for the same reason. Valyrian steel drew notice, and generally not the good kind.

No news had reached the innkeep of “Lady Bolton’s” disappearance, or perhaps the innkeep had heard and didn’t care, for after scratching their names into the parchment, the man didn’t bother Sansa and sent a boy to show them to a room. No one had recognized them yet, but each time an innkeeper paused Jon’s sword hand flexed and tensed. He blew out a silent breath when they were finally left alone.

Sansa began tugging out the pins holding her hood to her hair, breathing out relief of her own and rubbing her scalp as she shook her head. Her hair had to be tightly pulled back to prevent even a single lock straying out from underneath the fur. Her hair was too unusual, too easily identifiable. Edd had suggested a paste made from walnuts to color her hair for protection, but they had no steady supply, and her hair also proved her identity. Every lord in the North remembered Catelyn Stark’s auburn hair, and had heard tales of her daughter’s beauty.

Jon went to the kitchens and brought up two trenchers of a thin, uninspiring stew made from salt beef and turnips. As they ate, they discussed a little strategy for their next meeting, but in truth they had little to speak of. They spent almost every minute of every day in each other’s presence, and their talk soon died down to a comfortable silence and the sounds of eating. Davos and the other men they brought with them had taken separate quarters, thinking it best to appear as if they did not know each other in case one of them was discovered.

They had done this enough times that they had a routine. While she removed her outer garments, he turned his back out of politeness. Then she would slip under the furs and wait for him to do the same. This night was like all the others. He licked his fingers and snuffed all the candles save one before settling in beside her.

The dak did strange things to a man. And a woman, it seemed. Sansa did not like sleeping in the full dark, so he’d left one short candle burning, nearly gone, to light her way to sleep. Other than that, the room was dark, and in the dark people said things they would not otherwise. One night, she asked him if he’d rather she’d have been Arya, assuring him she would not mind whatever answer he gave. On another night, she whispered of a memory he’d long forgotten of all of them as children, playing in the snow. On a third, she asked him about Ygritte, of whom she’d heard spoken at Castle Black, and he told her of his time with the Free Folk and the breaking of his vows. On yet another, they spoke of Rickon and who he might have become since they’d seen him last. The shining sun did not permit whispered words like these, but the darkness did.

He heard her turn over on her side to face him, her knees drawn up beneath the furs, and wondered what she would ask him tonight.

He did not get the chance to find out, as whatever she was about to say was interrupted by a loud moan from another room. Sansa’s eyes darted to the thin wall between them. The sound was followed by one soft female cry, then two.

 _Seven save me,_ Jon thought with a miserable sigh, and pulled the furs over his ears.

Sansa had a different idea. Her fingers curled tight into the furs, and she half-rose from the bed. In the dim light, he thought she looked alarmed.

“He’s hurting her,” Sansa said. There was a tremble in her voice. She reached over to push Jon’s shoulder. “Jon, get up.”

His face heated. “He’s not hurting her.”

She drew back from him, looking almost wounded. “Can’t you hear her? We have to help her.”

They couldn’t draw attention to themselves, even if what she was saying were true, and that fact made his gut churn with guilt and defiance. But Jon was confident the sounds he heard were of pleasure, not pain, so he gestured for her to wait and cocked his head at the wall. It wasn’t long before they heard a series of long, low moans as she, whoever she was, presumably finished, and the man followed with a deep grunt not long after.

“Not pain, do you see?” Gods, he hoped she did. You would think a man who had died and come back to life could endure a little mortification, but somehow this was worse.

Her brow was furrowed. “Then why was she making those sounds?” she whispered.

Oh, gods. “He’s . . . pleasing her. She likes it.”

Her lips pursed, but she settled back into the bed, tucking the furs up to her chin, and Jon followed gratefully.

He almost allowed himself to think it was over and they could go to sleep in peace, until she whispered, “Jon?”

He closed his eyes. “Sansa.”

“Did you please Ygritte?”

He prayed for the bed, which suddenly felt far too small, to swallow him up like a creature from the depths of the seas, but the bed did not oblige. “Aye.”

“How do you know?”

“She wasn’t shy about telling me when I didn’t.”

She was silent for a long moment, and he felt her shifting next to him. But she didn’t say anything, and the tension compelled him to add, “It wasn’t like . . . it wasn’t like what happened to you. It doesn’t have to be like that.”

“I know!” she whispered fiercely. “I know. Mother and Father loved each other, and I know he wouldn’t . . .” She faltered. “It’s only that I don’t know what else _to_ imagine. How did you do it?”

“I can’t be the best person to ask this,” Jon said shortly. His gut was churning. He could feel the heat of her body near his even though they weren’t touching.

“I suppose I’ll just go ask Davos, then,” she muttered.

“Sansa . . .”

She sighed. “I know.”

Jon tried to think of something to say. “I suppose I touched her, and I--I kissed her. Her body.”

“How?”

“Gently,” he said, though that wasn’t entirely, or even mostly, true. But it was true to the spirit of what he wanted to convey, he supposed.

“You touched her . . . breasts?”

The candle sputtered, and the last light winking out gave him the courage to answer. “Aye. And other places. Between her legs. That’s where the pleasure comes from.”

She absorbed this notion in silence. Finally he felt her nod, and Jon sighed with relief.

His dreams were tormented that night. Perhaps it was because of their topic of conversation, or perhaps it was simply the vagaries of his own guilty mind, but he dreamed of Ygritte, at once bloody on the battlefield and naked in the cave. It was only in dreams that two things could be true at once like that. He dreamed that she loved him and that she hated him. He dreamed that he loved her and that he killed her. He dreamed he was loving her and when he looked, there was an arrow through her heart. He dreamed he put the arrow there and she was already cold while she said _Jon. Jon. Jon, please_ . . . as if from a far way off. He dreamed he was tasting her salt and sweetness again and she was already dead and her hair was too long and it wasn’t Ygritte at all but Sansa and she had a knife in her hand.

_Jon, please. Jon._

The glint of her knife coming toward his chest jarred him to wakefulness. He remembered his dream and jerked his body to the other side of the bed, sitting up and pulling the furs with him.

“You were thrashing about,” Sansa said softly from behind him. “I tried to wake you, but I was afraid to touch you.”

He put his face in his hands. His chest ached, every scar. 

He felt her move on the bed, but didn’t realize what she was doing until her arms were already around him. He tensed. But he didn’t have the strength to push her away. Instead he placed his hands over hers and held her there. Her chest was pressed to his back, only thin linen separating their skin, and her full, round breasts compressed against him. His cock twitched at the soft, warm sensation, both so familiar and not. He thought of his dream again, guiltily, thought of touching her, thought of putting his lips between her legs with a sudden ache in his groin.

The remnants of his confused dreams, he told himself.

"It was just a bad dream. Who doesn't have bad dreams these days?" He tried to laugh. 

"It's difficult to think of anyone whose dreams might be worse," she countered. “After what you've been through . . . but you’re here. You survived." Her breath was warm on his neck.

“But I didn’t,” he said. The words came out in a tumble. He knew she wouldn’t understand but he tried to make her anyway. “I’m not the same. I’m not the same Jon.” The Jon from before would not be having the thoughts he was having now, he was sure. Confused thoughts, selfish thoughts. Dark thoughts.

“I’m not the same Sansa, either,” she said.

He gave a dark laugh at that. “Then who are we?”

She considered this with her cheek pressed to her shoulder. “Willem and Joanna,” she said at last, and he turned, pulling her into his lap, burying his face in her neck. She made a soft sound at this but didn’t protest. 

Every inhale and exhale quivered with anticipation, as if they teetered on the edge of a knife. Finally it was too much to bear. Knowing it was his own death, he brushed his lips under her ear and listened to her gasp, every sound magnified in the quiet dark. 

They were both trembling. Their lips met in light sips, testing and trying, newborn colts fumbling their first steps. Her tongue touched the seam of his lips and it took all of his strength to lie back and pull Sansa with him, so that he wouldn’t push her down into the furs, spread her legs, and fuck them both senseless and forgetful.

Her fingers shook as she undid the row of buttons down the middle of her shift. He pushed the fabric aside, revealing a breast to his seeking fingers. It filled his palm as he cupped it. Fuller than he expected. Not a girl, but a woman. Her skin was so warm. She gasped when he took her nipple between his lips, tongue swirling around the hard nub, and whimpered when he sucked.

He guided her over him, feeling confusion in her every movement and imagining the moue of uncertainty that rose to her lips whenever she didn’t understand something. She caught on quick enough, though. Her hips moved against him when she lowered a breast to his mouth. The pleasure of feeling her against him, above him, was so sharp and deep it felt like a knife sliding between his ribs.

He kissed wetly down her breastbone, over her belly, urging her with his hands up, up, up. When she realized his intention, she made a sound in the back of her throat that was part uncertainty, part need, but she hitched up her shift with trembling fingers and settled her knees over his shoulders, though they wobbled as she did. The silk of her stockings snagged against his beard.

Her hips hovered too far above him for comfort. He lifted his head to press the flat of his tongue to the damp cloth covering the juncture of her thighs, and she made a quiet sound while her hips jerked. His fingers pushed her smallclothes to the side, seeking the soft, silky skin underneath. Just like any other woman, and the thought was a secret thrill. She lowered herself to his mouth and he swirled his tongue over her slit, up to her nub. She made a sharp sound that went straight to his cock and pulled away.

That was the way of them. She came close, then pulled back, leaving him to savor her on his lips until she decided she wanted more. Until that wasn’t enough and she ground down onto him, pushing her slippery cunt over his face. He groaned then, cock stiff in his breeches and begging to be touched, and she did it again. The quality of her movements changed as she became more urgent and demanding, as she found some secret source of pleasure in the slip-slide of her movements and the hectic rhythm of his tongue trying to keep up. His nose was full of her scent and his mouth full of her taste, and there wasn’t anything he wanted more than for her to take her pleasure from him.

He cupped her rear, supporting her as she stilled and arched silently over him. It stretched on and on, every muscle he could feel tense and trembling, and he couldn’t help but imagine being inside her now, feeling her every quiver around him. Finally she sat back unsteadily against his chest. Every breath that came out of her ended in a sweet little moan that made his hips want to jerk.

He squeezed her hips. “Oh,” she whispered, and rolled to the side, tucking herself into his body. He wiped his mouth against his sleeve before taking her wrist and pressing it to his cock, still in his breeches, before letting her go. Not a demand, but a question. She breathed in sharply before her fingers traced his length curiously, and he gulped in a breath and licked his lips.

If they were truly Joanna and Willem, he might urge her to ride him the same way she rode his face. He couldn’t deny the thought was a sweet one. But Willem and Joanna were not brother and sister, and Willem and Joanna’s babe would not be an abomination. This would have to do.

With quick fingers she unlaced his breeches and drew him out. A fingernail flicked against one of his balls in the process, and he groaned and had to grab her hand, keeping it still while he regained his breath against the sudden spike of pain. But it didn’t diminish his desire--if anything, the opposite.

More carefully this time, she mapped out with her fingers the edge of his foreskin and the leaking tip of his cock. When her hand disappeared from him he groaned again, until she made a muffled sound and he knew she was sucking the wetness off her thumb. The sound burned in his ears. She bunched up his tunic and her fingers trailed over him from tip to root to ball to belly and back again until he couldn’t take it any longer and wrapped both their hands firmly around his shaft and tugged.

Her delicate hand under his was a brand against his skin. It was only a few thrusts before he tensed and spilled in warm, wet gushes over their tangled hands and onto his belly. When he fell back limp against the bed and loosened his grip, she extracted her hand from his and touched his stomach as if searching for something. Her fingertips swirled and slipped in his seed, and then her hot breath was wafting over his skin as she leaned over to lick it all off, lapping up every last drop with her tongue. He pressed a dripping knuckle to her lips and she licked that clean, too, making his cock twitch even as it softened.

 _In the morning,_ he thought as he laced up his breeches and tugged down his tunic, _it will be like none of this ever happened._ But they would look at each other and know and feel shame. Or perhaps they wouldn't, and that might be even worse.

There was still a little while left. He drew her mouth up to his, framing her face with his hands. He tasted his own bitter seed in the corners of her mouth, under her tongue, and he knew she was tasting herself on him too. She moaned softly before pulling away and burying her face in his neck. He thought he might have heard a whisper as he drifted off to sleep.

The night did strange things to people, but for once his dreams were untroubled.

**Author's Note:**

> find me at [subjunctivemood @ tumblr](http://subjunctivemood.tumblr.com).


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